


Ain't No Particular Size I'm More Compatible With

by SupernaturalFlavoredLollipop



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural Novels - Various
Genre: Bar, Dean Winchester Fluff, F/M, Flirting, plus sized reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 22:51:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4280925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupernaturalFlavoredLollipop/pseuds/SupernaturalFlavoredLollipop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine being a full-figured, plus sized bodascious bartender, slinging drinks for losers every night, when Dean walks into your bar and you pique his interest with your charm…</p><p>Request for Anonymous</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't No Particular Size I'm More Compatible With

You clocked in, sighed, and pulled at the hem of your uniform. It was two sizes too small, but management insisted it was the largest one they could get. You knew that was bullshit, your size couldn't be that hard to find- clothing stores all over the place carried it. But, instead of arguing and risking your job, you poured yourself into the stupid button up black dress every night and went and slung drinks behind the bar. Because lets face it, you were the best, the fastest, and the most creative bartender “Hoover's” had EVER had. You needed this job, and the tips were fantastic. And because the ass hats you worked for wouldn't get you a uniform that fit properly, you made sure you made every drink _extra_ strong and wasted their liquor.

 

You took your place behind the bar, and began your night as usual, pouring drinks, ringing up tabs, suggesting improvised concoctions to the particularly daring and inebriated, when a guy you'd never seen before slid onto a bar stool in front of you. He looked right at home in this kind of dive, but you were 100% sure you'd ever seen him before. You'd remember those green eyes and tousled hair, and world weary expression that looked like it belonged on a man much older than the one before you.

 

“What'll you have, handsome?” You asked, wiping down the bar in front of him, hitching your skirt down over your ample backside one more time. The same as you did a million times a night. Seriously, fuck the management and their uniforms.

 

He looked you up and down appreciatively, which took you aback for a second. It wasn't that you didn't think you deserved it; it was that you didn't get that reaction a whole lot in this bar, in this ridiculous uniform. A black button up dress with a huge checkered collar wasn't flattering on anyone, let alone a full figured woman like yourself. But this man seemed to like what he saw. He licked his lips, and brought his eyes to meet yours. “I'll just have a whiskey. Double.” He smiled.

 

“Coming right up.” You poured the (rather boring, in your opinion) drink, and slid it in front of him. “You want to open a tab?”

 

“Nah, I'll pay cash.” He handed you the amount owed, plus a few bucks for a tip.

 

“Thanks.” You pocketed your tip, and went to help other customers. When you came back a few minutes later, he was still there, his drink gone.

 

“So what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” He winked at you, leaning forward slightly.

 

“Seriously?”

 

“It's been a long night. Humor me. It's the best I could do.”

 

“You know, flirting with me won't get you free drinks.” You eyed him skeptically.

 

“Honey, I'm absolutely cool with paying for my drinks. And yours, too, once you're off of work.”

 

“Bold, very bold.” You replied, but you couldn't help but smile back at him. He had an air of confidence that was infectious. “It's the dress, right? You just can't help yourself?”

 

“Well, I wasn't gonna say anything, but the checkered collar kinda does it for me.” He teased back. “I mean what guy _wouldn't_ go crazy for that kind of getup?”

 

“You're a kinky motherfucker, if you like this dress.” You rolled your eyes. “You want another drink?”

 

“Yeah, I'll have the same.” He raised his eyebrows at you and gave you his best “bedroom eyes”, which were pretty damned good. “If you want to write your number on the coaster, that'd be awesome, too.”

 

“Like I said, bold.” You left to get him his drink, returning with it and sliding it to him across the counter.

 

“No number.” He lamented, checking the coaster, turning it over for good measure.

 

“Guess you'll have to hang around a bit longer.” You shrugged. “I don't give my number to strangers.” You winked, pulled your dress down for the zillionth time, and went to help other customers again.

 

When you came back, he was still there. He ordered another drink, then extended his hand. “I'm Dean. Just so, you know, we aren't strangers.”

 

You took his hand, fingertips tingling at the touch. “Y/N,” you told him. “No more pickup lines?”

 

He shook his head. “Nah. Like I said. It's been a long night. And you seem like the kind of woman who sees through that kind of bullshit.”

 

“You're not wrong.” You crossed your arms over your large bosom. “What exactly is your game though? Not to be weird, but I don't get a lot of attention at this bar. Most of the horny losers who drink here go for the waifs waiting tables in the miniskirts.”

 

He leaned back, took a drink of his whiskey, set the glass down, and looked you straight in the eye. “Well, you know your way around a liquor bottle. You know your way around a bar. You look like you practically run this joint.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I like the way you handle yourself.” He shrugged. “What's not to like? You're pretty, too. Plus, you know, the checkered dress.” He smiled at his own joke.

 

You rolled your eyes. He was charming you, despite your best efforts against it. “Okay, okay.” You took out a cocktail napkin and scribbled your number on it. “Here you go, _Dean_. I'm off at 1:30. We'll see how serious you really are. How sexy you _really_ think all this checkered collar action _is_.” You pointed at your dress, winked, and sauntered away, pulling your damned dress down _again_.

* * *

 

You left the bar after last call, promptly at 1:30 am, and went into the changing room, doffing your horrible uniform in exchange for your skinny jeans, V-neck, leather jacket, and scarf. Feeling a buzzing in your purse, you pulled out your phone. You had a text message.

 

_Hey, it's Dean. If you want to go for a ride in the nicest car you've ever seen, meet me out front in five._

_PS wear the checkered dress if you really want to heat things up._

 

You smiled to yourself, slinging your bag on your shoulder. You made sure your pepper spray was in there, just in case this guy was a weirdo; texted your best friend with his information also in case he was a weirdo, and made your way out to the parking lot. Sitting in the last parking spot was a shiny black 67' Impala. You had to admit, it was one of the most beautiful cars you'd ever seen. Dean was leaning up against the side.

 

“Want to go for a ride with a stranger?” He winked at you, taking you in now that you weren't in your ugly, too small uniform.

 

“Maybe. Like what you see?”

 

“Well, it's not the checkered dress, but... _hell yes_ I like what I see.” He opened the door for you, and you got in.

 

It seemed like you drove for hours, talking, until you found yourself at the end of a dusty country road, the windows fogged up, making out heavily to an old, static filled classic rock station. His hands were in your hair, traveling the length of your body, appreciative of every curve, every dimple, every inch of flesh that had often times been mocked or overlooked by others. But when he looked at you, what he saw was beauty.

 

You smiled, seeing it reflected back at you in those green eyes of his as he came in for another kiss and his rough palms slowly slid up your sides, pulling your shirt up and over your head.

 

It was gonna be one hell of a night, you could already tell.

 

_Carry on my wayward son..._

 


End file.
